


Winter of Our Discontent

by LadyBee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASOIAF feat Shakespeare, Dark, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, I did worst in fanfic tbh, I probably murdered both ASOIAF and Shakespeare, Jon Snow as my version of Richard III, Jon Snow is King in the North, Murderer Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBee/pseuds/LadyBee
Summary: Lord Eddard Stark would probably curse him and his bloodline for ever considering Arya for his bride, but Jon has made peace with that long ago. He was what he was - bastard, friendless, motherless and doomed. The world had denied him the idle pleasures of carefree joy and since he could not prove himself fit to be an honorable guardian, he was determinate to become a villain.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 88
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Winter of Our Discontent

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first contribution to Jonrya Week 2020. The theme for the second day was "Dark" and I decided to mashup ASOIAF with my favorite Shakesperean villain, so this is Jon being Richard III in Westeros. Enjoy the reading.

Sleeping became a vague memory after a while. Maybe it was a side effect of the strange forces that brought him back to life, or just the panic of never waking up again what kept Jon awake at night. It felt like a waste of time and an invitation to disaster. Plenty could happen while he was in bed.

Like a ghost in all the scary stories he heard as a child, Jon kept roaming the empty halls of the castle with nothing but a candle or a torch to light up his way. Children ran away whenever they saw him, fearing that he would drag them to some sort of underworld. Women whispered that he had sold his soul to a devil in order to get back to life and reclaim Winterfell.

As the sleepless nights passed, Jon noticed that a second life felt more like a curse than a blessing. All the things he ever wanted had been poisoned or simply turned into ashes as soon as he touched them. All of his bastard dreams had been corrupted in some way, just to remind Jon that his life was never meant to be a happy one.

He was named King in The North and Lord of Winterfell at the expenses of his relationship with Bran. He ruled the North, but the name Stark had been denied to him. He sat on the Winter Throne, like the old kings before him, but Jon doubted his body would ever rest in the crypts. His anger set the country free from the Boltons but Winterfell still rejected him. That was not his place. It never would be.

Bran’s voice kept playing inside his head like an old tune. _“You might take my inheritance away and rob me of my birthright, but you’ll find no comfort in it._ _A crown won’t make you a Stark and we both know that this is all you ever wanted. This is something you can’t take away from me.”_ Those words were like snaked around his neck, slowly chocking him with anger and spite. Bran was right. No title or land would ever give Jon what he truly wanted.

“ _You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be Lord of Winterfell.”_ Those words often came back to haunt him as well. Robb’s childish defense of his rights had hurt him more than any blade ever could, even if in his last act Robb had named Jon his heir. It still felt like a bitter lie. As long as a true born Stark drawn breath and stood capable of challenging his claim, Jon would always be the usurper. The treacherous and evil black bastard.

There was no use for Jon to pretend to be anything but himself and embrace the foul nature of his illegitimate blood and claim. Sin, death and hell had set their marks on him, tainting his judgment and every lesson ever taught to him by better men. Alas, conscience was but a word cowards used  and Jon was done being afraid of claiming whatever his heart desired. He had more of the North than any of Ned’s sons. His blood was as cold as the water under the ice of all the frozen rivers. Snow was his name, nature and inheritance.

Robb laid dead and mutilated somewhere by the Trident. Rickon, still just a baby, denied adulthood forever. Sansa, all so superior and born for greatness,  s tripped of her inheritance by her own brother and cursed with the name Lannister. Only Brandon still lived – crippled, bitter and envious – hellbent to take back the Throne and rule. As long as Bran lived, Jon would never find peace.

Jon kept churning and chewing those thoughts inside his head as the long nightly hours passed. It was like a plague that started silently just to take over all of his waken moments. The last Stark standing, the last son of Winterfell...The only true threat to his claim and powerful beyond imagination .

T he solution to his dilemma was quite simple, but it took a man of courage to speak of it out loud.  Lady Catelyn might have been right after all. Fearing the bastard was the wisest move of a zealous mother.  His heart ached for the boy he once was and how he used to love Bran. The nature of power is a treacherous thing  indeed . It taints the purest feelings and make them rot.

Jon was a man of courage after all; a man of strength. The untimely death of the last son of Winterfell did not shock the realm, but didn’t agree with those of higher morals either. The  extended starvation  while in exile and frail condition since his spine was broken, made it easy to  frame it as a death of natural causes.  Most agreed with that version, although it was more a matter of keeping the peace than acknowledging a true  and legitimate sovereign.

There was no one left to lay claim to the Winter Throne and Jon was the only king they would hail and pledge loyalty to. Yet there was one last matter to be solved and it was not a light one at that, but Jon had sweeter ideas of how to deal with it.

Arya wore the black fit for mourning. Her last true born brother was gone and those who refuse to accept a bastard born king gathered behind the holly image of Lord Eddard’s brave little girl  for protection and hoping for a legitimate Stark to sit on the Winter Thorne again . The rose of Winterfell. The she-wolf.

Jon would never consider to do her harm, no matter how dangerous she had become under the ivory skin. He was perfectly aware of the threat she imposed to his claim if Arya ever decided to act upon her own ambitions. If anything grief let her dormant and numbed to the web of conspiracies around her. Arya was more concerned in keep moving on with her life a day at a time, carrying her own sorrow like an armor. She grew cold and bitter, just like him. No matter how many years passed, her soul would inevitably mirror his own.

Looking at her and following her every move from a distance were his favorite obsession. Jon lived in hope, wondering if in her dream she saw the same thing he did. Damned be his bastard heart and that compulsion for validation and reassurance. All his life Arya had been to him a safe haven; his confidant and true friend. Love was mostly a foreign concept to him but if Jon had ever tasted such fine and noble feeling, it have been fed him by the hands of the Lady. Once he had called her sister and that love had been pure and selfless. Once he had been honorable too, but those days were gone and his lovely cousin was no longer a child in his eyes.

It was useless for him to pretend to have nothing but honorable feelings for her. Jon had none of those left in him, only the greedy need for her; all of her. Beyond his own lust, there was also a more pragmatic reason for that necessity. Arya could give to him in bed the legitimacy he so much craved for. Not a Stark in name, but still able to keep the old lineage of the Old Kings ruling. Even his adviser had suggested that much, but Jon had to keep his own urgency in check.

The lady was still grieving for her lost family. It was cruel and immoral to approach the matter under such circumstances, and yet...Jon was growing impatient.

Winter was too harsh and his bed too cold for him to ignore the advantages of having a pretty wife to keep him warm. Lord Eddard Stark would probably curse him and his bloodline for ever considering Arya for his bride, but Jon has made peace with that long ago. He was what he was -  b astard, friendless, motherless and doomed.  T he world  had denied him the idle pleasures of carefree joy and since he could not prove himself fit to be an honorable guardian, he was determinate to become a villain.

That night proved to be no different than others. Sleepless he walked across the corridors and empty halls listening to the howling winds coming from the woods like the sound of a bad omen. His feet guided him to the crypts and the old gods, in their dark and mysterious ways, led him to his beloved’s hiding place.

There she was, sitting by her brother’s fresh tomb with a heavy cloak around her shoulders and a hood  over her head. Arya looked like a desolated spirit and a goddess of doom.

“I wonder if there’s ever any honor in being dead. If so, ours is the most honorable in the land, while I lament the untimely death of a virtuous brother. You were the wisest of us; the most loving creature. I do not wish to disturb your rest, Bran. Do not be bothered by my tears.” Jon heard her whispers in fervent pray. It sounded like an intimate chat and it made the King wonder if Brandon was listening to it by any chance. “I curse the gods for taking you away, but most of all I curse the man who did it. I do not believe your death to be natural or accept that I must go on resigned with my loneliness. I curse the heart that had the heart to do it. I want the one who made me suffer by killing you to face a more terrible end than I could wish on lions and dragons.”

What could be more terrible than to love her? Jon had been living a curse since he could remember. Exiled to the Wall and deprived of any warmth, with only the memory of her laugh to keep the cold at bay in cold nights such as that. No curse cast by those lips would ever hurt him any more than life and a bastard name did.

Jon stepped out of the shadows and approached her with cautious steps.

“So young and so wise, they say, never live long.” He said soberly as he looked at Bran’s indifferent and merciless statue. Arya rose from the cold floor to stand in front of him with the eyes of someone about to crumble down, but still strong enough to think of revenge. “Sweet cousin, I beg, let go of this anger.”

“I do have some nerve to come here as if you did nothing wrong.” It was the first time she spoke out loud of her suspicions, although Jon had no doubt that Arya had them. He could only hope she would understand that everything he did, he did out of love for her and a blind necessity to protect the life and dreams he had for them. “Villain...You know nothing of the laws of gods and men. Even the fiercest beast knows some touch of pity.”

“I know none, therefore I’m no beast.” Jon replied bitterly as Arya looked at him with the bravery of heroes and dignity of a queen.

“It’s amazing when the devil speaks the truth.” Arya’s voice was venomous and every word came out with a curse woven in it.

“What is it that I’m stand accused of?” He questioned with condescending voice. “What have I done to make you so angry, sweet cousin?”

“You dare to deny it? Bran died by your hand. Who else could do it? Who else would gain from it? Once you called us siblings and loved us fiercely, now you wear Bran’s crown and hold the North. I knew death could twist a man’s soul, but I hoped you would be the exception of it. I hoped some of my beloved brother would still live inside this dark shell.”

“All of your brothers are gone and there is only this shell to keep you company.” His voice was soft as his fingers brushed the skin of her cheeks. Arya didn’t move in her defiance and he wouldn’t love her if it had been any different.

“Maybe you should kill yourself and show some guilt over what you did. Maybe I’ll do what the Black Brothers could not.” She threatened.

“If I did such a thing I would be assuming my guilt and if you killed me you would stand guilty of the same crime you accuse me of. Liking or not, I’m King and the only one to benefit from my untimely death would be you. Arya Stark of Winterfell, First of Her Name, Queen in The North and Protector of The Realm...Maybe your accusation says more about your ambitions than my crimes. Let’s assume I did not kill him and move on. Bran is more suited to realm of gods than the realm of men anyway.”

“A place you are not welcome to, apparently. The seven hells are the only place you are fit for.” Arya growled in anger.

“There is one more, if you’ll let me name it.” Jon smirked at her.

“Some dungeon?” Her sarcastic tone only made that little duel of words even more interesting.

“Your bedchamber.” It felt good to speak so boldly and see the fire lighting up inside her eyes.

“There’s no rest to be had in a bedchamber that you are.” She answered and a thousand dirty thoughts crossed his mind.

“Exactly, my dear. Until I lie with you.” He cupped her cheek gently as a rush of confidence took over his senses. “My life has no other purpose but you, sweet cousin. Your very existence dragged me from hell and back to the world of the living and your face haunts me ever since. I even killed the nasty husband they attached to your name so you could be free for a better one to take the place legitimately. One that loves you better than any other man ever could”

“And who would do that? Name the man capable of loving the She-Wolf of Winterfell.” Arya defied him.

“Snow.” Jon replied simply.

“So was Ramsay’s, my false husband.” Arya snapped back.

“Someone else has the name, but he is a better man.” Jon brought her face closer to his. “You know so...You always knew. Your eyes infected me with love and I can no longer live in longing. Don’t curl your lips in scorn. They were made for kissing, not contempt. If your vengeful heart can’t believe me or forgive whatever you think I did to wrong you, than take this.” Jon pulled his dagger from the hilt and placed it in Arya’s hand, making her point the blade to his chest. “Bury it in my heart so I can finally be free. This heart, that adores you, begs for an end from your merciful hands.” The blade stood between them as Jon gently pressed his forehead against hers. “Remember the first lesson I gave you. Stick with the pointy end.”

Arya threw the dagger to the floor after a long moment of silence. The sound of it filled the crypts and echoed in the tombs. That was the sound of betrayal and the sound of surrender.

“Take up the dagger, or take me up.” Jon whispered fervently. “You know there’s no going back. As long as I live I shall haunt you.”

“Shut up, stupid.” Arya growled in frustration. “Take your blade and go away before I change my mind.”

“I’ll either die or have you accept my love for you. I won’t live daydreaming of impossible an impossible love. Tell me that you accept it.” Jon held her right hand and placed it over his heart. Arya closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’ll know about it later.” She finally replied with a voice suddenly frail and hopeless.

“Can I have hope?” Jon asked smooth and sensuously.

“I prefer to think that all men have some hope, just like all men must die and serve.” Arya moved away from him. Love and hate, both battling inside her eyes. Which one would prevail?

Jon  looked at his hand for a second . The only piece of jewelry he carried with him had been something he had commissioned before his coronation. I ring  he wore on his little finger, made of gold and silver with a single winter rose made of tiny sapphires.  He took Arya’s hand gently and placed the ring on her finger. “See how the ring embraces your finger? This is how your heart embraces mine. Wear both my ring and my heart for both belong to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it and reviews are highly appreciated.


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